The Sand Sifter Read online

  THE SAND SIFTER

  The SAND SIFTER

  Julie Lawson

  Illustrated by Anna Mah

  Copyright © 1990 by Julie Lawson

  Illustrations copyright © 1990 by Anna Mah

  First Edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage, retrieval and transmission systems now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This edition is published by Press Porcépic Limited, 4252 Commerce Circle, Victoria, B.C., V8Z 4M2, with the assistance of the Canada Council.

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Lawson, Julie, 1947-

  The sand sifter

  ISBN 0-88878-288-8

  I. Mah, Anna. II. Title.

  PS8573.A97S2 1990 jC813’.54 C90-091176-X

  PZ7.L39Sa 1990

  1

  “I’ve seen the man who makes the sand,” Jessica announced as she and Andrew were playing on the beach.

  “No you haven’t.” Andrew kept on shaping the sandy tower of his castle.

  “Don’t be silly, Jess. He couldn’t make all this sand. Just look!” Andrew stretched out his arms to take in the curve of the beach. Sand, sand, sand— to either side of the cove and then beyond to the next one, sand to the tide line, and further out beneath the waves, sand under their feet, deep, deep down as far as you can go. “He just couldn’t do it!”

  “Well, maybe not all of it. But some. I’ve seen him.”

  “No Jess, you haven’t.” And that put an end to that. Andrew took his shovel and started digging the moat.

  “And he knows all about you, too.” Jessica added softly. Too softly for Andrew to hear.

  In a tumble-down home carved out of the dunes lived the old man who sifted sand. His home was not a castle of sand, nothing fancy with turrets and towers and winding staircases of periwinkle shells. No gardens of cockles or mussels, no flowery sea anenomes teasing the waters of the moat. No, nothing fancy for the sifter of sand. His home shifted as the weather shifted the sands. In the rainy season it was hard and firm, but on dry days it was like a mist, no more solid than air. On a windy day it curved one way, in a slight breeze it curved another. During a storm it fairly tumbled and toppled on top of him. But it never bothered the old man. Even when it seemed like his home was blowing out from under him and over him and likely to disappear altogether— no, that didn’t bother the sifter of sand.

  2

  It was early in the summer, shortly after moving to Weatherseed that Jessica first heard about the old man.

  “He lives in the dunes,” her new friend Carey told her. “And he tells stories. You can come with me if you like. I’m going this afternoon.”

  “O.K! Sure! Can I bring my brother?”

  “No, better not this time. And don’t tell any-body. Only a few people know about him.”

  “Will he tell stories if I’m there?” Jessica asked.

  “Oh yes! He loves to tell stories. All kinds of stories! He knows everything, and he’s been everywhere!”

  “He just tells stories?”

  “Well … he just tells stories and sifts sand.”

  “What do you mean, sifts sand?”

  “You know … like he takes a handful of sand and puts it in a sieve so that the little bits go through.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To make the right sand for our beach, of course.”

  “Oh,” said Jessica. She was not altogether convinced. But she was happy to have a secret.

  Later that afternoon Jessica went with Carey to see the sifter of sand. Across the beach they walked, until they came to the dunes. Great masses of sand piled up by the wind, where you could slide and ride as if on the crest of a wave; where you could hide and never be found, or disappear forever, swept up and buried by the shifting sands. Across the dunes they went, climbing up, slipping down, sinking their foot-steps into the sand. Soon they came to the sand sifter’s tumble-down home, deep in the dunes. And there they found him.

  He was old, old, old. Why, his body was like his home, shifting in the sands. Sometimes he

  looked so frail and slight you’d think he’d blow away on the wind. But then in the next instant, he’d appear so strong and powerful even the waves could not break him. And his face! Weathered by time, furrowed with lines, like the ridges sculpted in the sand by the tides. It seemed like he’d been there forever, as much a part of the dunes as the wind and the sea.

  “Don’t shake the sand off before you go in-side,” Carey said. “He doesn’t mind it.”

  The old man beamed as they entered, and dusted the sand from their feet. Then he swept it into a pile to be sifted.

  He was surrounded by pails. Pails of all shapes and shades, colours and sizes. And every-where you looked were piles of sand! Mountains of sand, peaks and gentle hills of sand! Some pillars stretching up to the ceiling, some no more than a handful. And every pile in its proper place, waiting to be sifted into the proper pail.

  And for every type of sand there was a sieve. With big holes, medium, or small. And some so tiny you would hardly know they were there. To sift the fine particles from the coarser ones, and the very fine from the fine, and every type of sand in its proper place

  “My wife’s tea strainers,” he said with a wink, catching Jessica’s eye. “Don’t tell her I’ve got them!”

  “I didn’t know you had a wife,” said Carey.

  “I don’t,” he said with a wink. “But don’t tell her that!”

  Jessica looked confused. “I don’t understand.” “It’s just a joke,” Carey said. “Don’t worry about it.” To the old man she explained, “This is Jessica.”

  “Ah, Jessica! Jessica the wealthy!”

  “What?”

  “Why, your name! That’s what it means!” “Well, I’m not rich, that’s for sure!”

  “Oh, but you are! Why, you’ve just moved into that house up on the cliff, overlooking the cove, haven’t you?”

  Jessica nodded.

  “Well then— you’ve got the riches of the sea stretching out before you! See, riches come in many forms! Why, you’ve got the riches of a warm and loving family too, don’t you? And not long ago you turned nine years old! And you blew out your birthday candles and wished you didn’t have to move to Weatherseed, but your wish didn’t come true, did it? ’Cause here you are! And it’s better than you thought, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes!” Jessica agreed. “Way better!”

  “There, you see!” the old man continued. “Sometimes it’s better if a wish doesn’t come true! And every morning you and your older brother Andrew go for a swim and make sand castles there on the beach. And every afternoon your brother plays in his Boys Only Fort, and you find a few more stones and shells to add to your collection— which you keep in an old cookie tin. And which you keep hidden from that brother of yours!”

  “Wow!” Jessica was impressed. “How did you know all that?”

  The old man chuckled and gave her a wink. “Why, it’s all in the sand! And every grain of sand tells a story. And that’s why you’ve come, isn’t it? Not to keep an old man company, no, no, no. But to hear a story!”

  “Well, we’ll keep you company at the same time, if that’s alright!” Jessica said.

  “Fine, fine! I’m only teasing, anyway. You can’t believe everything you hear, isn’t that right, Carey?”

  “That’s for sure!”

  “Except for what the sand sifter tells you.

  And that’s the honest truth.” He settled himself down a
mongst his pails and piles of sand. Then, taking a sieve in his hand, he began.

  He told of far-away places, and long-ago times — when he was young, and the world was young. In hushed tones he spoke of creators and mythical heroes. He spoke of enchanted places, and kingdoms beneath the sea where dragons guarded their treasures, and nymphs floated dreamlike across the sand. And he looked into their eyes as he wove the tales, and held them, entranced. And all the while he spoke, he sifted the sand.

  Every grain in its proper place. Into one pail went the pearly grains, into another the misty grays. Into one the bits of sparkling mica; into another, the heavier black-lava grains. And there was a pail for the golden sun-drenched sands, and a pail for the crystally white. Every grain in its proper place, and every grain holding a story.

  Day after day Jessica went to see the sand sifter. Sometimes with Carey, sometimes on her own. Her mind danced with the stories he told, and her dreams were filled with the images he created. Often she thought of telling Andrew. But then at the last minute she’d change her mind, and hug the secret to herself.

  3

  “Hear that ruckus out there?” the old man asked. It was the cry of a raven. “Some believe that’s the one that started it all. Life, I mean.”

  Today the old man was sifting the misty grays, the sand of myths on rugged sea coasts where the raven had created the world.

  “Raven. That’s the one. He was a spirit, you see, and could change his shape. Why, he could be a baby or an old man or even a spruce needle! But most often he was Raven— sly and cunning, with a gift for mischief! And one day he made the Great Chief of the Sky Kingdom so angry he was sent away for good.

  Now below that land of clouds there was nothing but water. Raven flew and flew across the endless sea, looking for a place to land. And what do you suppose that cunning creature did?” asked the old man, sifting, sifting.

  “Couldn’t he just float on water? Like ducks do?” asked Jessica.

  The sand sifter chuckled. “How often do you see ravens on the water?”

  “Well, he was a spirit. He could change into a duck.”

  “Perhaps,” said the old man, sifting, sifting. “But that would have been too easy. And the world wouldn’t have been created. No, Raven swooped down upon the surface of the sea and beat the water with his wings, beat it with all his anger and frustration until it rose as high as the clouds on either side of him. When the water fell back it did not splash into the sea, nor was it whipped away as spray on the wind. It became land, and there on the first rocky shore Raven was able to rest. And do you know what happened? After a long, long time, those rocks changed to sand. And the sand sifter came along and began to sift the sand, each grain in its proper place. And after a long, long time, trees began to grow. And that land became a cluster of islands.”

  “Is that how our island got here?” Carey asked.

  “There are those who believe it,” he smiled.

  “But what about the people?”

  “Well,” began the old man, sifting, sifting, “that poor Raven got lonely. And one day, as he was hobbling along the beach, he reached down and picked up a handful of sand. As the grains slipped through his fingers they made a little pile, almost a little shape. And he looked, and thought, and he looked and thought. Aha! That’s what I’ll do! So he took another handful and shaped it and shaped it — it was quite wet, you see, so it held the shape pretty well — and soon it became the image of a man. So he did the same thing again, but this time he made a woman. Then he brought them to life. And that was that!”

  The old man looked at the tiny grains of sand falling throught the holes of his sieve. “But you know what? We’ve still got a little of that sand left in us. And that was a good trick of Raven’s.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Carey.

  “Well, how much do you remember? From one day to the next or from one year to the next?”

  “Not everything, that’s for sure!” Jessica said.

  “And you haven’t even been around long!” the old man laughed. “You see, all things that happen are like grains of sand sifting in our heads.

  We’ve got sieves for brains! Some people have sieves with big holes, and they can’t remember a thing. Then there are those who have sieves with small holes. They’re the ones who can re-member almost everything. Except for dreams, of course. To remember dreams you’ve got to have the finest of sieves with the tiniest, tiniest holes. Then you might remember a dream or two.”

  “What about you? Have you got a sieve for brains?” Jessica asked.

  “Why, I’m the sifter of sands,” he said with a wink. And that was that.

  4

  Jessica was pleased with her new expression.

  “Sieve for brains, sieve for brains!” she chanted happily to herself. That was what Andrew was, for not believing her. She’d kept the secret for so long, then finally when she was sure the old man wouldn’t mind, and even Carey said it was O.K., her stupid brother hadn’t even believed her. Well, she’d show him a thing or two.

  “Know what, Andrew?” she asked.

  “What now, Jessica?” he replied, not looking up from his book.

  “You’ve got a sieve for brains!” she giggled. Andrew was not amused. He looked at her, frowning. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, afraid he was angry. She turned to go

  “No, wait a minute! What did you say?”

  “I just said you’ve got a sieve for brains. It was a joke, it’s not true!”

  “But how did you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did you know my dream?”

  “What dream?” She was very confused.

  “Look, last night I had this dream. And my brain was a sieve— it was just full of holes, great big holes. And there was this black bird flying around and around, dropping stuff into my head, and it all just passed through. So I’m just curious—how did you know about a sieve for brains?”

  Jessica found it strange too. Her brother’s dream reminded her of the sand sifter’s story. And yet Andrew hadn’t heard it, and she certainly hadn’t told him.

  “Did Carey tell you about it?”

  “No, I haven’t seen her all day.”

  “Well, you know the old man I told you about? The one that makes sand and tells stories?

  “Yeah, but what’s that got to do with it?”

  “That was in his story, the sieve for brains, and not being able to remember things. And the black bird, that was Raven. In his story.”

  “When did you hear all this?”

  “Yesterday. Remember, this morning I tried to tell you about him And you didn’t believe me,” she added. Well, maybe he’d believe her now.

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  “Yes, I go every afternoon. I love going to see him. He’s like a — oh, I don’t know — a wizard, sort of. But he doesn’t do magic tricks or any-thing like that.”

  “He just makes the sand,” Andrew said with a slight sneer.

  “You can see for yourself, if you come with me. But if you don’t want to, I don’t care. So there, sieve for brains.”

  5

  Of course Andrew decided to go. He wouldn’t let his younger sister get the better of him. And after all, if it turned out to be a laugh, he could get countless days of teasing out of it.

  “Ah! This must be Andrew, who remembers his dreams but doesn’t always believe his sister! Come in, come in!” The old man greeted them warmly, as always. Today he was sifting the golden-red sand, each grain round and gleaming like a miniature sun. “Tell me,” he said, leaning towards them, “did you see any footprints on the beach?”

  They looked at each other, and shrugged. “No,” Carey said, “not really.”

  “Tch, tch, tch,” said the old man, shaking his head. “You’ve got to be on the lookout for foot prints in the sand! Why, there’s no telling where those footprints might lead! And there’s no telling what treasures you
might find when you follow them!”

  “I never thought of that!” Andrew exclaimed. He promised himself he would pay attention to footprints from now on, especially if treasures might be involved.

  “Why, once long ago, when I was young and the world was young, I followed some footprints across the sand. Golden-red sand it was, like this,” he said, sifting, sifting. “Far and away on the other side of the world it was. Far and away in time,” he added softly.

  “Wera they big footprints?” Jessica asked.

  “My, but you are the inquisitive one, aren’t you?” the old man chuckled. Andrew and Carey laughed too.

  “What’s quisitive?” Jessica felt she was being made fun of.

  “It’s asking a lot of questions,” Andrew explained.

  “Like in a quiz,” added Carey.

  “Like curious … or just plain nosy!” the old man said. They all laughed at that. “But to answer your question, no, the footprints weren’t big. Or little. Just medium. Nothing strange about them at all. You know, five toes on each one, the usual sort of thing.”

  “So the person was barefoot!” noted Andrew the detective.

  “Ah yes … barefoot he was. And why not, seeing as he’d just come from the bottom of the sea! But that part comes later. Now, as I was saying, I followed those footprints across the sandy beach, around one cove, and then another. And soon I came to a young man. He was sitting up on a rock, sad as sad could be, gazing out to sea. And in his hands he held a box.” The old man paused, and looked at them intently. “Now then, what do you suppose was in that box?”

  “Treasure!” exclaimed Andrew. “Gold coins and jewels!”

  “I think there was just one gigantic pearl!” said Carey.

  “Well,” said Jessica thoughtfully, “I think maybe it was some special shells that he’d been collecting. That’s why he was on the beach.” It made sense. That’s what she would have put in the box.